


Tuesday Night Pie

by LaurytheLatrator



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, safe sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:21:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22573195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurytheLatrator/pseuds/LaurytheLatrator
Summary: “You’re skulking,” Ciri says, and Geralt jumps. He glares up at her far too smug face peering through the window.“Shut up,” He orders her, knowing it’s futile.The girl shakes her head pityingly. “Just talk to him yourself this time.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 29
Kudos: 888





	Tuesday Night Pie

The tray comes out of the oven and fills the room with the sweet scent of cooked pastry. Geralt removes the wax paper and baking-weights and observes the crust; golden, the edges slightly browned, no undercooked spots he can see. Satisfied, he lifts the bowl of puree mixture and slowly pours it into the crust. The cinnamon and molasses make themselves known in the air as the filling settles. He gently shakes the tin to dislodge any bubbles. Then he adjusts the temperature and returns the tray to the oven, where it will create a pie out of the disparate parts he’s just combined.

Geralt straightens, rubbing his perpetually flour-coated hands on his black apron, and checks the time. In fifteen minutes he’ll turn down the heat and give it another half hour. In the meantime he moves to the window to check on Ciri and their display stock.

Ciri is entertaining a customer, and Geralt doesn’t like the look of him. He needs to get the girl a name tag that reads “I’m Ciri and I’m 16 so quit ogling.” But Ciri calls him paranoid, tells him to believe in people, and he won’t disabuse her of that faith. Ciri gets to work on the espresso machine to fill his order, and Geralt assesses the displays. Most of their stock is cookies, they sell fast, and he sees the tray of oatmeal and cranberry is nearly through. It takes him a moment to check his stock, but he has a tray of brown sugar and oatmeal in the fridge. He pulls it out and puts them in the oven to heat.

“Evening pipsqueak!” He hears from the bar while he’s bent over. Geralt nearly bangs his head when he whips it up. Of course it’s Jaskier; tonight’s a tuesday, he always plays tuesdays. He’s talking to Ciri, obviously, and Geralt eavesdrops on the exchange, trying to peer through the window from a crouch. He can see Ciri, but not Jaskier. His goddaughter is beaming at the musician, already moving to fill his usual order.

“You’re early,” she notes brightly. Geralt surreptitiously checks the clock; yes, he is.

“Can’t stay away, not on tuesdays! I’ll set up my case and be back for that delicious tea in a sec.” Geralt hears the sound of him walking away.

“You’re skulking,” Ciri says, and Geralt jumps. He glares up at her far too smug face peering through the window.

“Shut up,” He orders her, knowing it’s futile.

The girl shakes her head pityingly. “Just talk to him yourself this time.”

Instead of deigning that with a reply, Geralt pulls out the tray of oatmeal cookies and sets them on the window’s ledge. “Replace those cranberry ones with these.” Ciri rolls her eyes, the _brat_ , but compiles. She’s shuffling the stock around when Jaskier returns.

Their eyes meet and Geralt stares at him, frozen. Jaskier is 27, far too young for Geralt, with artfully messy brunette hair and shining ocean-blue eyes. He smiles with his white and perfect teeth.

“Oh, hi Geralt,” Jaskier greets him nonchalantly, “What’re you working on tonight?”

Geralt clears his throat. He glances at the clock. He ducks and checks how the pie is faring in the oven.

Finally when he can delay no longer, he grunts, “Pumpkin pie.” It’s his last bake of the day, tuesday night pies always are.

“I love a pumpkin pie!” Jaskier raves, apparently not minding Geralt’s horrible social skills. “So creamy and sweet, aw man, I can’t wait.”

Tuesday night pies had become a tradition as soon as Jaskier’s first question in his audition was, “Do you do pies?” The answer had been… no. And Geralt had quickly changed that.

“Do you want one of these oatmeal cookies to tide you over?” Ciri gestures to the newly filled display. She has his regular tea and honey ready to hand over as well. Geralt shrinks back subtly, knowing he’s no longer needed. Jaskier’s attention returns solely to Ciri.

“Nah, can’t have any chips stuck in my throat.” He takes the drink from her and slips her a five. Ciri’s told him he doesn’t have to pay, but he never listens, and she’s apparently given up. He toasts her, sends a little barely-there glance Geralt’s way, then goes to his stage.

It’s not a real stage, it isn’t elevated or anything. It’s a stool against the wall of the bakery, with his open guitar case and CDs set up next to it. But it’s belonged to him for months now, every tuesday since Ciri managed to convince him they needed an attraction for the slow days. And it had worked for the most part. Tuesday nights saw an influx of young people there for Jaskier and the atmosphere he brought to the place.

Of course, that didn’t solve all the other slow days.

Geralt pushes his sudden spike of anxiety into checking on the pie. The sounds of Jaskier’s music starting up drift his way. After so many weeks, he tunes out the songs themselves, just lets the voice wash over him. He starts his nightly cleaning routine bobbing his head to Jaskier’s sound.

The hour passes too quickly, and soon he has a pumpkin pie cooling on the workstation and Jaskier is thanking the audience for their scattered applause.

“And a little birdie told me that there’s a pumpkin pie fresh out of the oven, smell that?” He takes an exaggerated sniff. “Oh yes, that’s going to be delicious, I can tell. Join me, won’t you, in having some?” Some of the young people will, most won’t. The majority of tuesday night pies go to Geralt’s wednesday morning breakfast. He’s had to change up his workout routine to accommodate the extra empty calories.

But, there’s an upside, of course. Geralt slices a large portion of the fresh and steaming pumpkin pie and puts it on a ceramic plate. He passes this to Ciri, who doesn’t touch it.

“You could—”

“Cirilla.” With a huff, Ciri takes the plate and turns around. He hears her lift the partition and stride out onto the floor.

Faintly he hears her say, “Compliments of the chef.” He can’t make out Jaskier’s reply; his voice is always a little raw after his performances. Probably he’ll be asking for another tea with honey to ease it.

Geralt watches the time. The evenings are always lighter for him, as he preps most of the day’s stock in the morning, and if this were any other day he’d already be upstairs in his flat, trusting Ciri to clean up and lock the door. But it’s tuesday, so he lingers. Finally, with fifteen minutes until closing time, he gets his rag and ventures out from the kitchen. Geralt absolutely hates being out on the floor. Customers don’t respond well to his intimidating appearance. He only uses it on nights like these, when he can aggressively wipe tables and signal to the customers that they should get out. And they do, until there’s only one table left to clean.

Jaskier is savoring his tea and his slice of pie is still mostly there. Geralt eyes it with trepidation.

Finally he crosses the room and says to Jaskier, more forcefully than he intends, “If you don’t like it you can have something else.”

“What?” Jaskier croaks, startled, looking up at him. Geralt’s lips thin, and Jaskier follows his gaze to the pie. “Oh, that. No, I love it.” He even pulls it closer to himself, as if Geralt were about to take it from him. “Sorry, am I taking too long? I was just tired. Let me,” He takes the fork and scoops a large bite into his mouth. “Mm,” he hums around the food, and gives Geralt a thumbs up.

Geralt isn’t sure if he means it, but he senses the dismissal, so he grunts and leaves for the counter. When he joins Ciri behind the bar, he asks, “You gave Jaskier his pay?”

“Yup,” She chirps. There’s an envelope in her hand and she holds it out to him. It’s the remainder of the day’s earnings for him to count and put in the safe. Then in the morning when he’s setting up he’ll get out what they need to make change.

“Go on,” He tells her, “I’ll mop up.” Gladly Ciri bounces out from behind the counter, pecks him on the cheek, waves to Jaskier, then she’s out the door in a swirl of blonde curls. Smiling to himself, Geralt quickly counts the money. Not as much as he’d hoped. He ducks down, enters the safe combination, and sorts it with the other meager stacks. Anxiety settles low in his stomach, but there’s nothing to do for it but close the safe and hope for better profits tomorrow.

Jaskier is still there, his fork scraping occasionally on the plate. He is taking his time, and Geralt isn’t sure if he should wait to mop. Jaskier spies his expression of indecision and flinches.

“Sorry,” he says in that hoarse voice, “I should get out of your hair. It’s late and I know you—“ He abruptly cuts off.

Curious, he asks, “I what?”

“Nothing,” Jaskier stammers, seeming flustered in a way Geralt hasn’t seen him before. At his continued stare, Jaskier says, resigned, “I know you don’t like me much.”

Geralt stares blankly at him.

“To be fair to you, I am an annoying person. I rub a lot of people the wrong way. I appreciate your hiring me anyway, and, you know, not sacking me.”

All of Ciri’s disappointed looks when he hid in the kitchen at Jaskier’s approach, all her prodding to talk to the man, her insistence that he work on his resting bitch face… it makes more sense now. He’d thought his pining was painfully obvious, but apparently...

Geralt blurts out, “I make pie for you.”

It’s Jaskier’s turn to stare and then he says slowly, “This is a bakery.”

“I never sold pies before.”

Jaskier blinks. “What?”

Haltingly Geralt confesses, “The other days of the week I only make brownies and cookies.” Jaskier just keeps staring. After a moment, Geralt adds defensively, “You said you liked pie.”

“I do, I…” Jaskier shakes his head. “Ok, either I’m reading this all wrong, or I’m going to kiss you.” He paused, assessing Geralt’s reaction. “Good?”

Geralt motions him over, “Get on with it.”

Stumbling to his feet, Jaskier crosses to the counter and leans absurdly far to kiss Geralt sweetly on the mouth. Geralt pushes and gives back as much as he can, taking the kiss from tentative to certain. Jaskier makes a raspy noise in his throat and Geralt sees red. He pulls back and vaults over the counter, startling a laugh from Jaskier.

“That was very sexy,” he says, breathless, “Even with the apron.” Geralt looks down at his ratty black apron. “Don’t get me wrong, I love the apron. you’re so effortlessly masculine and the flour and everything just makes that clearer.” Still, he doesn’t want to ruin Jaskier’s clothes, so he rips it off over his head, leaving him in a navy tee-shirt and jeans. “That works too,” Jaskier decides.

Geralt takes his chin and brings him in to kiss deeper into his mouth. He wraps his arm around his back as Jaskier groans. He melts into his embrace, and Geralt feels his hands dip beneath the back of his shirt. His fingers are guitar-calloused and send a shiver up his spine. 

“Is this too fast?” Geralt takes a moment to ask.

Jaskier adamantly shakes his head. “This is glacial.”

With that Geralt can kiss with real intent, tongue fucking into his mouth the way his cock longs to, trapped in denim. Jaskier leans heavily into his chest as he bows back and lets Geralt plunder. His own hands slink below his waistline and dig into the top of his ass, bringing their hips in line. They’re both hard and they groan when Jaskier rubs his length against Geralt’s.

“Have you got whip cream?” Jaskier asks breathlessly.

Geralt frowns; he doesn’t quite get the question. “I make my own whipped cream. I don’t have any fresh.”

“What about chocolate sauce?”

 _Oh._ “Not in a bottle, I…”

“Make your own, naturally,” finishes Jaskier with some humor. “But can you blame me? You’re a baker, all my fantasies had sweets!”

“Will you be disappointed if we just fuck?” asks Geralt seriously. Jaskier’s gaze slides past his face to the window of the kitchen. “That’s so unsanitary. I live above the shop.”

Whining, Jaskier says, “If you think we can wait that long.”

In answer, Geralt takes his hand and pulls him to the back. He hears Jaskier’s light laughing behind him as they race up the stairs. When they emerge into Geralt’s modest apartment, he turns and kisses him and rakes hot palms up his shirt. Jaskier obligingly lifts his shirt and throws it somewhere, then moves to do the same to Geralt’s. They kiss again and Geralt groans lowly at the sensation of the hairs on Jaskier’s chest rubbing against his own. Their hands roam over exposed skin and Jaskier’s calloused fingertips flick over his nipples.

“Fuck,” Geralt grunts at the perfect friction. He needs more. He moves to undo Jaskier’s belt.

“Yes,” hisses Jaskier, “Yes, yes, yes…”

Maneuvering Jaskier by his hips, Geralt guides him to sit back against the couch. With Jaskier’s help, he kicks off his shoes, and they pull off his tight trousers. With Jaskier laid fully nude upon his couch, Geralt can’t help himself trailing wet kisses down his hairy navel to where his cockhead leaks. He takes Jaskier in his mouth, hearing a wild moan above him, and sucks his head hard. It’s been a while since he did this. His hand wraps around the shaft and pumps while Geralt refamiliarizes himself. Slowly he sinks down on him further, taking more and more of him into his mouth, feeling the heavy weight on his tongue as he sucks. Jaskier is cursing and pleading, and Geralt hears him. He pulls off, licks a long line from his balls to his cockhead, and Jaskier’s back arches off the couch.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, if you, if you don’t stop…” He pants adorably. Geralt takes him by the ankles and pushes, bending him in half. Jaskier goes, so perfectly malleable. Geralt sucks his balls, then the wrinkled flesh beneath, then licks the sweet pucker of his asshole. Jaskier hisses, “Yes, fuck me!” And Geralt fucks him with his tongue, caressing his dark rose open.

When spit has done all it can, Geralt leans back and commands, “Touch yourself.” With a whine Jaskier does, pawing eagerly at his cock. Geralt tears himself away from the sight and goes to the bathroom. He knows he has lube under the sink, and as he searches, he also swigs listerine. He comes out with the half full bottle of lube and a condom. He returns to Jaskier, who abandons his cock to fumble with Geralt’s belt. He leans down and kisses his mouth, and Jaskier makes a surprised hum at the clean taste.

When they part, he says, “Thoughtful,” teasingly.

Geralt lubes one finger. He presses into Jaskier’s heat, finding him relaxed. The way Jaskier is clawing at him, he takes pity, making short work of stretching him. Then he shucks his jeans and quickly rolls the condom on.

“Fuck, you’re…” Jaskier trails off, staring at his cock.

Self-conscious, Geralt asks, “Do you need more prep?”

“No,” Jaskier says bravely, “Just go slow, yeah?”

Geralt nods. He slowly teases his cockhead over Jaskier’s rim. It’s a sweet agony. Jaskier moans in agreement.

“Fuck, even the tip is huge.” Geralt thrusts shallowly, his hole fluttering, trying to suck him in. “Stop teasing,” Jaskier demands, a quick change of mind. But Geralt continues to give him just the tip and pull out before the stretch can be too much. Then, with one thrust, the head pushes through, and they both groan. Jaskier’s ankles push at his lower back, and Geralt can’t resist, he gives him what he needs. Inch by inch they work together until Geralt is fully engulfed by his tight heat. Jaskier mumbles an incompressible mess of flattery and filth. Finally Geralt moves his hips and snaps in, fucking into him in earnest. He bends to kiss Jaskier again, distracted by how good he feels, and they end up panting into each other’s mouths.

“Fuck me, fuck me,” Jaskier chants under his breath, and Geralt does, pumping into him again and again. He takes what he’s been lusting after for months and Jaskier gives him everything he has. The pressure is building in his stomach, in his balls, behind his eyes. He bites lightly on Jaskier’s lower lip and Jaskier’s hips stutter. He stops moving with him and just takes it, a light gleaming in his blue eyes that mesmerizes Geralt. He pants rhythmic little _ah, ah, ahs_ and then his mouth parts in a silent _oh_ as he comes against Geralt’s abdomen. He’s utterly beautiful. Geralt licks beneath his jaw and sucks on his neck as he feels his own climax build. He thrusts hard into Jaskier’s flexing hole and then the world goes white.

He comes back to himself pumping shallowly inside Jaskier. They kiss, tongues tangling hotly. Geralt would like to stay in him forever, but the time comes that he must pull out. He grips the condom as he does, and walks unsteadily to toss it. When he returns, Jaskier’s stretched himself along the couch, looking like the cat that got the cream. Geralt huffs a laugh to himself.

Jaskier eyes him, sleepy and sated, and says “You haven’t got any of that pie left?”

Geralt kisses him long and sweet and answers, “I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so I wanted to write some canon fic, but apparently I've got all this AU energy to get out first.
> 
> Go read [Tinseltown](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22075522?view_full_work=true) if you haven't already, I put actual work into that story, not like this one which just kinda vomed out of me.


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